


Fresh Scars

by Mishka_kitty



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Depression, Drabble, M/M, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:26:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka_kitty/pseuds/Mishka_kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ciel finds comfort in pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fresh Scars

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Свежие шрамы](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6237883) by [Frau_Anhelika_Rotenstaub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frau_Anhelika_Rotenstaub/pseuds/Frau_Anhelika_Rotenstaub)
  * Translation into Українська available: [Свіжі шрами](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6238234) by [Frau_Anhelika_Rotenstaub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frau_Anhelika_Rotenstaub/pseuds/Frau_Anhelika_Rotenstaub)



> I'm sorry for this. But writing is often one of my best coping mechanisms and this, written in the 20 minutes before I had to get up for class, helped me clear my head enough to do that.  
> And if it's written, I might as well post it.

14 December 1886  
22:05

There is no candle lit in the study to illuminate the small, huddled figure. But he needs no light. Paper knife gripped tightly in his right hand, the adult child presses the sharp blade to the inside of his left arm and cuts deep. Blood already drips from two previous cuts, staining his porcelain skin, the virginal white of his nightshirt, the fine carpet he sits on. And there is pain, a burn, a sting. But it is not yet enough to make him forget the ache in his chest as his lungs seize.

There are no tears. Perhaps his eyes have forgotten how to create tears. The blood drops will suffice. A fourth cut splits the thin flesh and for the first time his hand trembles the slightest bit, marring the straight line. He feels lightheaded, unreal, detached. He hopes that he will fall unconscious; it would be better than this.

The work of the day was a welcome distraction, but in the silence of the night, he has only his own mind for company. And his mind is such a shattered thing. He supposes he is quite mad, but the pain throbbing in his arm feels more real than anything else.

He doesn't notice when the blade falls from his weakening fingers. He barely registers the hands which catch him before he crumples to the floor. But they will always catch him.

"My lord, I forbid you to injure yourself in this way ever again."

He can't decide if the voice is angry or afraid. He supposes it would be disgraceful to kill himself and renege on his promise. But he would rather burn in flame for eternity than to remember ... he should have burned already.

"Promise me, master."

"I promise."

Even as his mind turns to the small carving blade hidden beneath his mattress. At least the pain would be of his own doing.

"I know what you're doing."

"Do you?"

"It is not healthy, my lord."

"And what would you know about it."

"Suffering is my specialty. ... And now I will have to find a way to clean the blood from that carpet."

"Replace it."

"Yes, my lord."

Gloved fingers trace over fresh cuts and old scars and the creature sighs. The dark head bends and the lightest of kisses is brushed across the oldest scar, in the crook of an elbow. The child leans imperceptibly into the touch and a single tear traces a slow path down his cheek. Perhaps he can break himself on his own best weapon; he has exhausted every other option.

His specialty, indeed.

And a week later, when the child issues his order, the creature takes it to heart and spends a night shattering the fragile being with claws and teeth and words and strength. Only to pick up the pieces in the morning and carefully fit them back into place.

The blood-stained blades lie forgotten.


End file.
